


En Memoriam

by Pyxie_Dust



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: May second, the Final Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:04:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6735436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyxie_Dust/pseuds/Pyxie_Dust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let us raise our wands to remember all who have fallen on this fateful day to bring us to where we are now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Memoriam

The students of Hogwarts all gather into the Great Hall. It is silent except for the shuffling of feet and the occasional groan of the wooden benches as they scrape against the floor. There are new students here. Students with eyes still bright and innocent. There are new teachers here. New teachers who don't worry about curses ending their careers early, or are haunted by the ghosts of their childhoods long past. 

All of them sit solemnly as one woman stands tall. Minerva McGonagall looks out amongst the masses, she looks out amongst her companions, and for a moment, just for a moment, can believe that this was what had happened on this same day eighteen years ago.

She is an old woman now. She has lived a long time now. Placing a hand on either side of the podium she says, "Good evening students, and welcome to the eighteenth annual remembrance of the Battle of Hogwarts." For once there is no whispering, no rolling of eyes, no bored looks. These are the children of the war, the ones born after the pain, the fear, the loss. They stand in silent reverence. They know the stories, they know what several of their parents have been through, and they will give the honor and respect it deserves. 

Headmistress McGonagall takes a deep breath and focuses on the rest of the students and begins her speech, "On this day, in the year 1998 the final battle between Lord Voldemort and The Boy Who Lived took place in this very hall. One hundred students stood up against their fears and fought against the Death Eaters that stormed this castle. It is on these grounds that they fell, and on these ground that they will be remembered forever for the feats." 

She pulls out a scroll and unfurls it, "En Memoriam of these students we raise our wands high and honor their sacrifice. En Memoriam we will cast a spell for each of the names on this list, including those of the Order Members that died alongside the students." 

The students stood up and raised their wands, the professors doing the same. Tiny dots of light glimmered at the tip of every wand and the candles floating above them dimmed. Casting the room into shadow.

Every time a name was read off the light would shoot upward, or glow a tiny bit brighter as the students would send their thanks heavenwards. The names, "Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey,Cedric Diggory, Nigel Walport, and Fred Weasley," each got a larger burst of light than most. The names, "Remus and Nymphadora Lupin," get a multicolored shot from the Hufflepuff table, with a bright red and yellow shot from the Gryffindor table, the blue haired boy that is their son gripping his wand tightly as it flies up. The ginger haired boy saluting the friends of his father that he never knew, thanking them for their help.

When the list ends Headmistress McGonagall rolls it back up and raises her own wand, "We thank each and everyone of those who gave their lives so that these children might never know the fear that was cast over this school. We revere each sacrifice with the respect and awe that they deserve. And we pray that no pain or suffering that each of these names knew might ever happen again within these hallowed halls." With that she has them all fire a final shot, the light gathering to the center of the Great hall in a great orb before leaving through the doors and vanishing into the night sky.

~*~

In the sitting room of a quiet Manor, three Slytherins, long past their school years, remember in their own way. 

They were children when the war broke out. But they were given choices that even an adult should never have. 

Pansy Parkinson looks out the window at the darkened grounds. Her mind ages away, recalling a girl sitting at a table in the Great Hall, scared out of her wits as she sees the most wanted person in Britain emerge from hiding and challenge the new Headmaster. She cringes as she recalls the girl thinking that the fear may go away if she handed the man over, standing up and shouting, "But he's there! Potter's there! Someone grab him!" 

She had been a girl then, she had only wanted out of the cruel world that she had been thrown into. Those words, that girl. She was not the same as she was back then. She's made her peace with Potter, she's moved forward and tried to do some good in this new world. Tried to make up for past mistakes. But those words will always haunt her. She may have never taken the mark, but she had a brand all her own.

Gregory Goyle sits on a chair facing the fire. Its flames lapping at the log and burning the remaining wood to cinders.

Another fire is brought to mind. One conjured by his best friend. One that took his best friend as well. 

He remembers the fear and adrenaline running through his veins that night. He remembers thinking that a dead Potter would mean a safer world for him and his own. He remembers thinking that the Carrows had taught him and Vincent well enough to control such a volatile curse. Remembers how easy it had been to cast the Cruciatas, how hard could it be to use the Fiendfyre. Remembers thinking he was going to die alongside the boy he was supposed to kill. 

Sometimes he wonders if he should be grateful or guilty that he was wrong on all three parts.

His own brand, the burn scars coursing up and down his legs, reminding him every day that he has Potter to thank for even being alive.

Draco Malfoy pretends to read a book on the chaise, brow furrowed as if in deep thought. But the words are nothing but blurry squiggles before his tired eyes. He's old now, perhaps not as old as Headmistress McGonagall, but older than a thirty-six year old wizard had any right to be. The faded red mark on his forearm is nothing more than a scar now, the Hawthorn wand in its holster has done nothing but domestic charms and a bit of alchemy since it has left Hogwarts. His mind is lost in times further back than the other two, its swimming in memories of unreturned handshakes, meaningless fights between two schoolboys, and a false sense of honor placed on his head. 

It darts to sixth year, when the mark was freshly burned. He was proud then, thinking it to be the greatest honor any pureblood wizard could have received. He thought that the task set before him would be easy, he hated Dumbledore enough, surely he could kill an infirm old man. He was scared, nothing he was doing was working. All the attempts had lead to the harm of other students instead of its intended target, and worse yet, the vanishing cabinet was too broken for a sixth year to fix. He was lost and afraid, trying to hurt Potter in his moment of insanity, hurling curse after curse in an attempt to drive the other boy away. There was pain there, so much pain. There was blood, and water, and fear. There was the screeching of Peeves and the terrified yelling of a certain green eyed boy. There was nothing. Then there was Snape and a song. The vanishing cabinet worked and the Headmaster was dead. But not by his hands.

The rest of the year moves past. Nagini was terrifying to be around, Greyback even more so, but he'd never felt so close to death as when the Dark Lord had him come when he was holding court. 

Potter's face couldn't have been puffier, if it had been anyone else he wouldn't have been able to know who it was. But his scar was a dead giveaway. If he turned Potter over, then the Dark Lord would leave his family alone, he would have all he wanted.

But.

This was Potter. And Potter could end everything. Could stop this fear that would haunt Draco forever if the Dark Lord continued to reign high. So he made a choice. So he gave up his wand. And he prayed, for the first time in his young life, that Potter would win.

When the war had ended he had been freed because of Potter's generosity. He married someone he loved. He was teaching his son to be someone better. His brand is still there. He was still on the receiving end of several spiteful looks, but he's a better man than the boy he once was.

They were once pawns in an old man's war. But now they fight and walk on their own.

~*~

Narcissa Malfoy sits in her room, gazing at an old family photo. One taken the day before Draco had left for Hogwarts. 

He was so young then. So full of life. Full of Innocence.

When she looked at her young son now, she knew that she would never see that smiling face again.

Sometimes she wondered. What would have happened if she had done more? If she hadn't just let Lucius lead them along like sheep. If she had sensed the danger sooner and ran with her son in tow.

Remembering the happy grey eyed boy she once had, she wondered and wondered. Thats what mothers do. They worry about the times to come, and the times that have already gone by. 

She thinks of Lily Potter and her son. It was her love that led her son down the path he walks today, it was her love that led the boy to learn to fight for others instead of himself. And yet, he was still led like a lamb to the slaughter, just like Draco was. 

If his and Draco's roles were reversed, would she have done the same?

Lifting a cup of tea to the air she toasts the dead woman's ghost, and all the mothers who's children will never hold the same spark of life ever again.

~*~

At the burrow, the remaining Weasley's gather under the evening sky and remember their one missing family member. Molly laughs tearfully as she relays to the others how Fred used to toddle around pinching people and then blamed it on George. Arthur smiles fondly as he recalls one summer when he gave the twins their first brooms, watching as the two of them zoomed across the sky, laughing brightly and scaring him and Molly half to death when they tried to do tricks. Bill tells them about the time Fred and George tried to tag along when he first started out as a curse breaker, he was halfway to Cairo when he found them in his trunk. Charlie talks about the time he first told them they could be anything they wanted to be, and how they took it to heart and tried to be Dragons. Percy talks, with a softer voice than the rest, about how he used to dock as many points as he could during school because of their pranks, only for them to earn just as many back by doing well in class. 

George sits among them and listens to all their stories. Laughing as he remembers, and occasionally having to wipe his eye as a stray tear escapes. For a little while he can pretend that its a normal night. That there isn't anyone missing. That Fred is sitting right next to him, laughing with him in tandem, just out of sight.

Several times he has to remind himself not to look. To not turn and whisper some secret as the stories are told over and over. Has to fight off the emptiness and the cold that he feels now that he is alone. And it hurts. But he laughs, he smiles, because Fred doesn't want him to be sad. He wants him to enjoy life, to create as much mischief as he could in the time that he has left on this beautiful green earth. And the only reason that thought keeps him going, is because Fred told him so.

By writing on his arm.

Off to the side Ginny, Harry, Ron, and Hermione all sit on a log closer to the ramshackle house. Each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Ginny and Ron think of their brother, they think of the laughter he brought, of the pranks he pulled, and of the pain they felt when he was taken away. 

Ron remembers the big brother that turned his favorite teddy into a giant spider, scarring him for life. If it would bring him back, Ron would face a thousand acromantulas the size of Aragog.

Ginny thinks of the big brother who taught her the bat-bogey hex. The one who knew she was a force to be reckoned with when she was angry, and told her to use it to defend others. 

They stare at their family for a bit before going over to join them. Sitting on either side of George, so that the cold that always seems to surround him fades just a little bit.

~*~

Harry and Hermione sit side by side on the log. Slightly apart from their family, but together nonetheless. They know this pain. Its an old one, eighteen years old.

But their minds are occupied with their own pains, old scars, old wounds from their childhood that was centered around a war that was never theirs to begin with.

The small pink lettering written on the inside of Hermione's forearm are a constant reminder of what she suffered through back at Malfoy Manor. Sometimes ballrooms still managed to terrify her, more than one time she'd step into one for a Ministry Gala, only to have to leave a few minutes later to prevent from having a panic attack. The word MUDBLOOD was large, but faded, against her pale skin, a constant reminder of what she was, of what some people still saw her as. 

But Hagrid's words from second year always came back to her, "They haven' made a spell our 'Mione can't cast." As did Remus Lupin's, "You really are the brightest witch of our age." She held these close to her heart and they always eased the pain that came with the scars Bellatrix had left.

She still had her family, she had her two best friends, she had a job, and a loving husband. Not many women could say that. But she was grateful all the same.

This world had thrown her into the hellfire that it was born from. It had taken one look at who her family was and screamed outsider. It had tossed her back to her old one and that world screamed hide away. She learned to cast the most complicated spells known to magic from the age of eighteen. She'd created a fund and charities for everything that the war had left ravaged, all with the experience of a haphazard idea to help House Elves.

She was the bucktoothed, frizzy-haired girl that stepped into Hogwarts. And she was the strong, powerful woman who had walked out. All thanks to the people who she had known, loved, and lost along the way.

~*~

Harry sat on the log and looked to the sky.

The star named Sirius shines brightly amongst all the others, just a bit away, the star Regulus shines just as bright, and Harry wonders if the Black brothers were finally getting along. 

A row of flowers to the side of the house are still in full bloom this late at night, Casablanca Lilies if he remembered correctly, and just behind them a stag has wandered through the trees. A bittersweet feeling fills him as he watches the deer vanish into the night. The ghosts that he saw during the armistice flood back to him, and he wonders, for what maybe the millionth time, if that encounter had really happened. 

If anyone had known loss, from even before the war, it was Harry. He was an orphan. He had been neglected. And then he'd been brought back to the world he had been born in. He'd been given friends, a family, people who genuinely loved him. And then had it ripped away from him all over again. 

He thought about each of them. Of all the people who had died to protect him. The people who died to fight for what they believed in. Who fought to protect what they loved.

He thought to the statue that was erected just outside the Hogwarts grounds, bearing the names of the one hundred students that had died. He thought about Teddy and how he'd never get to meet his parents, who would only know about their greatness through history books and stories told by his grandmother and his parents closest friends. Of the Weasleys and how they'd always be one member short from now on. 

All those lives sacrificed for the sake of a world they were barely growing up in.

Wizards live a very long time. A hundred years at the least, and the current record holder for the oldest Wizard was being held by Ron's great Aunt, and Merlin knows how old she is. 

And yet when he looks at the faces of old classmates, of old friends, and even older parental figures. He knows they've aged far more than numbers can count.

The door to the Burrow creaks open and a little boy peeks out, "Dad?" Harry smiles and gestures for him to come over, "Hey Al, where's Lily?" The little boy climbs onto his father's lap and curls into his chest, "She's asleep on the couch." Harry chuckles lightly and ruffles his son's hair. 

His son has green eyes just like him and an old phrase filters through his mind, "You have your mother's eyes." Harry shakes his head and focuses back on his youngest son, "Shouldn't you be doing the same Al?" The little boy huffs, "I'm not tired,"just as a yawn escapes his mouth and renders the notion unreliable. Harry chuckles and pulls his son close, "Of course you're not Al." Harry looks back at the Weasley's, all of them are huddled together now, keeping each other strong through the long night. He looks to his son, who has chosen to fall asleep in his lap.

He thinks of all the people he's lost, of all the sadness that has passed, and all the joy that's come of it. 

Those children attending Hogwarts will never know the fear he did every year.

Those left behind will never have to live through another war, hopefully.

Those carrying scars have aged and learned from them and gone on to be better people.

And those new children, those still growing, still enraptured in innocent and happiness, will never lose it prematurely.

~*~

Now the day is over and done. 

So we lay our wands to rest,

And place our books away.

The Boy Who Lived.

The Brightest Witch.

And The King we hold so dear.

Will all be there once we return

When the time is right to share.

With innocent smiles, and playful wiles.

And new tales our own have not yet learned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for Reading. This really hurt. And I'm sorry if the writing is a bit dodgy, I did this as fast as I could, cause tumblr decided to remind me what a painful day it is. I know I'm behind on other projects, but I promise to have them up soon. See you later guys.


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